I’m not even on it. At last count we had 16 guinea pigs, 5 rabbits, 2 dogs and 1 cat.

Nine of the guinea pigs even have their own Wendy House in the garden. Can you believe that?

All the animals need feeding. And cleaning. The dogs need walking but at least the cat can walk itself (in fact, it practically looks after itself although I’ve yet to see it open a tin of cat food).

I put up with it for a quiet life. I did suggest one guinea pig per child but it seems to have fallen on deaf ears.

In some ways, the animals have their uses. Waste disposal for example. Left over fruit and veg can just be tipped into the Wendy House and devoured.

My old newspapers are used to line the flooring and the cages. But now they’re starting to be used when I haven’t even read them.

‘Where’s the sport section, darling? Oh, under a pile of guinea pig shit. Silly me.’

I’m going to leave a note for the paper boy to not bother with the letter box on the front door but just drop the paper straight into the Wendy House.

I love words. Most bloggers do I suppose, thinking about it. But a line has to be drawn somewhere.

In my profession words are importance. In particular the use of words are important. It’s best if they’re clear and concise and keep the listener or reader interested (are you still there?).

A friend of mine in the CPS received an e-mail the other day stating that new computers were being installed. ‘Your current desk will be removed and replaced with a compliant cable managed workstation that will support a PC device,’ it said. A computer desk in other words.

Can you imagine going into Argos or Ikea and asking for a compliant cable managed work…………?

Oh. I can’t be arsed.

The phone rings. You’re in the middle of cooking dinner. Should you answer it? Can it wait?…………..No. You turn down the gas, mutter expletives, and jog to the phone. By the time you reach it there’s been at least 10 rings. You pick it up just in time. Or do you? You put the phone to your ear and…….silence.

It’s one of the fucking automated dialling systems. You remember…..you entered your phone number into a website survey months ago. And now every Tom, Dick and Harry has got it. Or is it Tom, Dick and Harry? Recently it’s been Kevin or Sharon or Michael calling.

And they all sound so far away with foreign accents.

A neighbour of mine does a top secret job.. He popped in the other night for a beer and a chat and told me about his recent trip to the Middle East. He flew from Heathrow to Dubai but, as the roads were prone to mines and being blown up, he had to be ‘helicoptered’ in to his destination.

He told me he owed his life to the pilot. Ten minutes into the flight the helicopter came under fire and the pilot had to perform near-acrobatic manoeuvres to avoid being hit. At one stage his was scraping over the tops of trees. When he finally landed it was high fives all round.

‘It was fucking amazing,’ said my neighbour.

We started to discuss a family outing for our kids in the Summer Holidays. I suggested Chessington or Alton Towers.

‘No way,’ he said. ‘There’s no way I’m going on those rides’.

I was excited. I had fancied her rotten for ages and we had been getting closer and closer. Tonight could be the night. The night when our feelings would finally get the better of us.

Earlier I had been to the Chemist. I came out with a comb, some paracetamol, toothpaste, a bar of carbolic soap, nasal strips……….and a packet of condoms. Which is what I went in there for in the first place.

I got home and took one out and debated with myself whether or not I should take it with me. Just in case. I was worried, though, that she might think I was being presumptious. On the other hand, if things did get carried away, I was worried that she might expect me to have a condom. In the end I decided to put one in my wallet.

We met as planned and went to our favourite pub. She bought the first drink and we sat down at a table, laughing and making small talk.

When we finished it was my turn to buy. I took out my wallet and flicked it open. To my horror, flipping over and over in slow motion in its silvery packet, was the condom. It seemed an age before it landed on the table ‘smack bang’ in the middle of us.

I had a great shag that night although it’s never worked since.

No matter how many times I’ve tried.

Some blogs are funny. Some blogs are sad. Some blogs are informative. Some blogs are weird. Some blogs are interesting.

But all blogs allow the freedom of expression (in most countries anyway).........

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/4099802.stm

May be one day there'll be an annual ceremony much like the Brit Awards. Hosted by Jonathan Ross or Graham Norton.

As some of you may have observed, I love seeing the humour in a situation. The funny side of things as it were.

Most of my stories are absolutely true and others are, well, the wine talking (can you guess which are which?). But not only do I like finding the humour in things sometimes I have to create it. Especially when there are pregnant pauses or deathly silences. I can’t help myself.

Take the other day. I was at a School Governors’ meeting and the topic for discussion was the extension of the staff carpark. It would involve cutting down several hedges and trees.

‘We’ll have to get tree fellers in you know’ said the Headmistress.

No response. Silence.

‘Surely we’ll need more than that!’ I piped up.

No response. Silence.

Sometimes it makes it worse.

We never take time to savour these things these days.

Three cheers, then, for the man who dreamt up the concept of ‘slowfood’ (see www.slowfood.com). The idea came to him when he was appalled by the opening of a McDonald’s in Rome.

‘Slowfood’ is about encouraging people to savour food during a leisurely meal rather than refuelling on the move. It’s against anything that threatens diversity, sustainability and quality. It also raises the profile of local produce.

How ironic, then, that it takes fucking ages to get a meal in McDonalds when the queues are always 20 deep and you can’t move for people wanting fast food. That is real slow food.

There are some men who love their cars with a passion. In fact, they love their cars more than they love their wives and children.

The car is always gleaming. No dirt or scratches anyway to be seen. Parked pride of place in the driveway.

You must have seen them. Go out on a sunny Sunday morning and I bet you’ll see loads of them. You’ll drive past scores of cars that have just been washed and polished. They’re easy to notice with the big white puddle around them with the owner standing back to admire what he’s done.

Like he’s just wanked over it.

There’s an island off an island off the West Coast of Scotland that has a monastery with resident monks. It’s revered as a sacred place – both for mankind and wildlife alike.

The literature about the island talks about love and peace and how no alcohol, drugs, sex or TV is permitted. It’s a place to find yourself.

I went there. It was a 10 minute boat trip across. You’re left on the shore and told to follow the trodden path to the monastery. I did and was in awe of the atmosphere of the place. I daren’t utter a word – I didn’t want to put a foot wrong or offend anyone.

I was left to my own devices, to wander and explore. It didn’t feel religious but did feel peaceful. I was watching the monks go about their daily routinesin their simple clothing. Their habits.

Then I noticed one of them disappear behind the rear of the building. We caught each other’s eyes briefly but it was enough to make me follow him. He went into another inconspicuous building that didn’t allow access to the public. Nevertheless, curiosity got the better of me and I went to have a look.

I peered through the window and strain as I might, I couldn’t quite make out what was going on.

But I reckon I know. I bet he was having a well deserved pint and a fag watching the racing on the telly, with a copy of Playboy on his lap.

The poor chap was stood in front of the Mental Health Tribunal awaiting his fate. All the evidence had been heard and considered and a decision was to be made whether he should be detained under the Mental Health Act or released back into the community.

He was asked whether or not there was anything further he wanted to say.

‘Yes. How come when I talk to God people saying I’m praying but when He talks to me people say I’m mad?’

Answers on a postcard.

I was told a story by a friend that the best way to frighten off a lion when confronted by one (which happens a lot in my local shopping precinct) is to stare at it directly.

I’m not sure whether he meant before or after you’ve filled your pants. I mean, I’ve had staring games with my kids where the first one to laugh loses. I usually win by making funny faces (it’s the competitive streak in me).

But imagine doing that to a lion – going cross-eyed and gurning. It wouldn’t be long before your head was in its mouth and you’re staring at its tonsils.

There I’d be, trying to prise apart its jaws, saying ‘Ok Ok, best of three’